The Day Steam Died (10 page)

Chapter 17

“Again, after December 7, 1941, Coastline was called on to help with the war effort and the steam engine was the workhorse.”

Town divided

In less than two weeks of fierce bargaining, the strike was settled. Coastline increased the raise offer by two cents an hour, up to seven cents an hour. The union dropped its demands for improved working conditions and relinquished a holiday to keep two sick days.

Bankstowne residents were bitter, but relieved to have the National Guard gone and their jobs back.

“Things will never be the same,” Roy said to Harold Birch on their way back to work. “People got hurt, our town got a black eye, and we all know our jobs and way of life will be gone soon. I guess we’d better make the best of the time we have left and figure out what we’re going to do when the end comes.”

“Yeah, I reckon so. I could have retired a year ago,” Birch said, “but what would I do? Sweatin’ steel tires on those big old drive wheels is all I know how to do. Diesels have small wheels with an electric motor driving them. They just don’t wear out like those steam engine drivers digging at the rails to get a string of boxcars moving. Guess I’ll hang it up and do a lot more fishing. What about you, Roy? You’re too young to retire.”

Roy didn’t respond. He just looked forward and kept walking.

Sam Johnson was promoted to Vice President of Operations of Coastline Railway as a reward for bringing the strike to a quick end. His new position required him to move to corporate offices in Washington, D.C.

Sam’s wife, Pearl lost the few friends she had in Bankstowne because of the strike but wasn’t excited about moving to the wealthy community of Potomac, Maryland where other corporate and high ranking government officials lived. She was a small town mother who liked watching her son play football at Chapel Hill. Now they were more than 300 miles away. Going to the games in Coastline’s executive car was boring, and the heavy cigar and cigarette smoke that filled the car aggravated her allergies. By the time they arrived at Chapel Hill, her clothes were saturated with smoke and she had to change before they left the hotel for the game.

Fewer workers were needed to work on the dwindling number of steam engines being brought in for repairs. As the old-timers retired, they weren’t replaced.

“Today is Harold’s last day,” Roy said over the top of his newspaper to Mary Beth, who was busy working the crossword puzzle after breakfast. “They’re sending me and several of the other men to Detroit to be trained on diesel repairs. Four roundhouse stalls are being modified so we can work on diesels here. That’s the most encouraging sight I’ve seen since the strike. Maybe a few of us will survive after all.”

Mary Beth’s small hand jerked the paper from Roy. “And when were you going to tell me about this trip?”

“I didn’t know about it until yesterday just before we clocked out. I wanted to sleep on it and was just too tired to talk about it last night.”

“What was there to think about—do you have a choice? There aren’t a lot of jobs for men who spent their life working on steam locomotives that won’t exist this time next year,” Mary Beth said. “When will you leave and how long will your be gone? Wil’s in Raleigh at college and Rick never gets home until I’m already in bed.”

“I leave a week from Monday and will be gone for six weeks. We’ll get to come home for Christmas for a couple of days, but that’s it. I’ll talk to Rick. He can come home earlier to make sure everything is okay and run any errands you need.”

“I’ll be fine, I just would have liked a little more notice, that’s all,” Mary Beth pouted. “Hurry up and finish breakfast. You’re going to be late for work.”

Chapter 18

“Your selfless efforts in a time of need to transport troops and war materials to support of our brave men fighting a global conflict was met with enthusiasm.”

Decision Time

Rick’s exclusive coverage of the Shops’ violent strike for the Raleigh Times Herald was also picked up nationally by the Associated Press. Editor Dan Jenkins of the Herald offered him a job if he would come to Raleigh and finish his Journalism degree at N.C. State.

It was a tough decision. Roy’s health had declined. He’d retired on a disability pension from Coastline.

Mary Beth had always supported his journalistic pursuits, and even Roy had come around and was proud of the job Rick had done at the newspaper during the strike.

“You need to go, son,” Roy said. “You worked hard and this chance will put you right in the heart of the state’s politics there in Raleigh. With your brother married and in school, it’ll be good for you two to be together again in the same city.”

Orange Bowl 1959

Sam Johnson hugged his six-foot-two, 230-pound All American son in the middle of the Orange Bowl playing field. 85,000 fans and dozens of TV broadcasters surrounded them after North Carolina defeated preseason favorite Notre Dame on national TV.

“I couldn’t have asked for anything better, son,” Sam said. “Stomping Notre Dame forty-two to thirteen was the best Christmas present you ever gave me. We’ll be number one in all the polls after today, and you made it happen.”

“I told you last year we would win the Orange Bowl and be national champs, didn’t I?”

Tank and Sam’s celebration was cut short by TV reporters from all the major networks that had formed a circle around the game’s star player for interviews.

Tom Harmon managed to shout over the noisy celebration going on behind the cameras. “Tank, how does it feel to be a four-time All American on the national champion North Carolina team? And I just got word you’ve been voted Most Valuable Player in today’s game by the Associated Press.”

Tank waved toward the cameras, flashing the number one symbol with his index finger. Tom came in for a close-up of Tank, trying to cut out some of the background noise.

“It feels great, Tom. We worked hard for this moment. We thought it was going to happen last year, but we’ll take it today. It’s been a great run, a dream we worked on for four years.”

“What are your feelings on last year’s ranking?”

“Well Tom, we were undefeated and beat the best teams in the country. There’s no question we deserved the championship last year. But they gave it to Texas thanks to a system that elects a champion instead of having playoffs to let the best team win it on the field. We just had to come back this year and prove we were for real. We beat a great Notre Dame team who was the pre-season pick to finish number one. It’s been a great four years and this is a perfect ending.”

“Speaking of perfect endings, rumors are going around that you’re going into politics the next election. Is that true?”

“A lot of stories have been going around about that, Tom. I won’t deny that I might be interested in running for governor someday, but my next objective is to graduate from law school here at Chapel Hill. After that, who knows what will happen? Right now I just want to enjoy the moment with my teammates and family.”

“The Washington Redskins are talking about making you their number one pick in the draft next year. Would you pass up a guaranteed starting position with a long-term, million dollar contract for law school?”

“Like I said, I just want to enjoy the moment. There’s plenty of time to decide what my next move will be. Thank all you Carolina fans out there. Go Tar Heels!” Tank shouted to the cameras as a throng of screaming fans surrounding them picked up the chant. He received pats on the back from fans as he made his way through the crowd towards the locker room.

“Well, you heard it from the most prolific running back in the history of the University of North Carolina football, Tank Johnson. He surpassed former Tar Heel great Charlie “Choo Choo” Justice’s long standing records for the most yardage gained and touchdowns scored. He hasn’t decided what his future holds, but it’s for sure he can write his own ticket for whatever he decides to do. Stay tuned, folks. We may have just interviewed the next NFL Rookie of the Year or future Governor of North Carolina. This is Tom Harmon sending it back upstairs to you, Chris.”

Dodging delirious fans, players and cheerleaders hugging each other all over the field, Rick Barnes headed for the largest gathering of bodies moving toward the end of the field. He flashed his press badge and shoved his way past the state troopers escorting Tank off the field.

“Congratulations on a great game and career, Tank.” Rick used a sincere tone as he extended his hand to Tank.

“Well, little man, what are you doing way down here in Florida? A trip like this would break that little rag in Bankstowne,” Tank said.

“Actually, I’m down here on assignment for the Raleigh Times Herald. I transferred to N.C. State and I’m a stringer for the Times Herald. I’ll be fulltime as soon as I graduate this semester. Seriously, you’ve had a fantastic season, and the Tar Heels deserve to be national champs.”

Tank turned to his parents. “Did you hear that? I didn’t think I would ever hear a congratulations come from him of all people.”

Rick stood patiently with his hand still extended. “I never thought I could say it either, but we’re grownup now. No need to be enemies anymore.”

“Go ahead and shake his hand, son,” Sam interjected. “We need to get going. The Touchdown Club’s throwing a big bash for the team at the Tar Heel alumni center.”

Tank grabbed Rick’s hand and nearly crushed it. Rick smiled when he stepped back from the handshake; he would never let Tank know how much pain he’d inflicted on his old high school nemesis.

“Hey, man, you’re better off,” Tank said. “She was like an alley cat. No telling how many kids she has by now.” He jogged away to join his parents and celebrating team mates.

The sting of Tank’s cutting remark hurt worse than the crushing handshake. Rick opened and closed his hand, clinching his fist to be sure it wasn’t broken. Then he wondered what Tank had meant by that crack.

A memory flashed back to that day at the drug store after school. Ann was distraught and disheveled like he’d never seen before. She wouldn’t explain what had happened. Then the sudden breakup, moving without even saying goodbye.

Tank had brought back all the anger Rick thought buried in a back corner of his mind. What did Tank mean by his comment about how many kids she had now? And what did he know about Ann since her family moved away?

These questions swirled in Rick’s head. He swore to find out just what Tank meant or if he had anything to do with Ann’s family disappearance.

Tank’s newfound popularity among state political hacks also piqued Rick’s interest. His nose for a good story made him suspicious about Tank going to law school instead of the NFL. He could write his own ticket and Washington Redskins’ owner George Marshal said he would spend whatever it took to sign Tank. So why would he pass that up?

Back in Raleigh, Rick filed his Orange Bowl story and a sidebar piece on Tank Johnson’s record-setting career at Carolina. It had been a long weekend topped off by a young woman with a three-month-old baby that sat next to Rick and cried all the way back on the flight to Raleigh.

Rick and Editor Dan Jenkins were having a last cup of coffee before going home.

“Why would an athlete with the talent and credentials of Tank Johnson pass up a guaranteed five year contract worth more than a million dollars to go to law school?” Rick said. “Does that make any sense to you?”

“I wondered about that too,” Dan mused clearing off his desk. “He can name his price. The Redskins are desperate and Marshal said he would spend whatever it takes. He could go to the NFL and be All Pro for five or six years then come back and walk into the governor’s mansion by acclamation. It would be a coronation like nothing we’ve ever seen. What’s his rush to be governor?”

“Rumors are flying around the state that Sam is pushing Tank’s candidacy as a senator in the General Assembly. By the time he reaches the legal age to run for governor, he’ll have a solid support base in the General Assembly and with Sam’s money will be a shoo-in for governor.”

“Why do you suppose that is so important to Sam?” Dan responded.

“This whole deal smells bad. My gut tells me Sam Johnson has some kind of game plan for influence peddling in Raleigh and we need to check it out,” Rick said.

Dan cocked his head to the side and arched his eyebrows. “Don’t you have a brother over at SBI? And you’ll be coming on board full time in January, so why don’t you see what you two can dig up on Sam and his Prodigal Son?”

“I’ll check with Wil and see if the SBI has any interest in him. Good night, Dan. See you Monday.” Rick dragged himself out the door and headed home to sleep for the next twenty-four hours.

Chapter 19

“The skill of these Shops in keeping those old steam engines running was nothing short of a miracle.”

Graduation June 1960

Thousands of caps and gowns turned the green grass turf of Keenan Stadium Carolina Blue as graduates filed in row by row. The sky was so clear and blue it looked like a reflection from the graduating students’ robes.

Dr. Alexander Dolby, Chancellor of UNC, took the podium for his welcoming remarks and introduced the commencement speaker, Governor Steve Mathews.

Mathews walked up to the podium with a slight limp from a hunting accident. He paused, took a drink of water, and gazed out over the packed stadium then calmly launched into his speech.

“Looking over this sea of blue makes my heart swell with pride. I’m proud because this state and institution are true bluebloods of education, industry, and national champions.”

The audience’s applause interrupted his speech for a full minute before the governor raised his arms for silence.

“It isn’t often a governor gets to congratulate a championship team led by a young man who may one day seek my job,” the governor said, dignifying rumors that Tank was going to enter state politics. He paused at the sudden hushed reaction of the audience, took another sip of water, and then returned to his speech, sounding like a politician behind in the latest poll.

“Government is not unlike the game of football. It takes a team effort to accomplish great things. And for that team to perform at its best, it must have a leader who is willing to compromise when necessary and share the effort to accomplish what needs to be done. One man can’t carry the whole team.

“Headlines don’t win battles. Getting down in the trenches and getting your hands dirty and maybe a bloody nose once in a while does. That’s how you win wars whether they are on the football field or in the General Assembly.” Mathews paused for another drink of water, acknowledged the crowd’s loud applause, and then continued.

“The next legislative session is facing a dilemma of a twenty-million dollar budget shortfall. Some legislators advocate a hands-off policy on cigarette taxes at three-cents a pack, which is the lowest in the nation. They would rather cut educational and medical spending, crippling our school systems and fine medical colleges and nationally renowned research institutions than to raise taxes on a disease causing industry that adds a hundred million dollars to health costs every year.”

“Can you believe this?” Anthony “Deano” Deangelo whispered to Tank in the audience. “He’s already campaigning against you and you aren’t even a candidate for the General Assembly yet.”

Deano became Tank’s closest friend after he bribed a medical student at the infirmary to perform an abortion on a co-ed football groupie Tank had gotten pregnant at a fraternity party. They were well suited to each other: ruthless and cunning enough to get what they wanted. Deano was a small-time wannabe wise guy from New York sent by his father to UNC to keep him out of trouble. Deano’s father was a political block captain in the Bronx with suspected ties to the Mafia.

With Sam’s money, Deano paid other students to write Tank’s papers and take his exams. Plenty of willing girls and fraternity parties attracted Tank to the freewheeling Deano. Tank’s football notoriety brought status to the high living New Yorker’s fraternity.

“In closing, I pledge to fight for more money to invigorate the economy through medical research and banking. To expand foreign trade of the textile and furniture industries. And yes, I will raise the tax on tobacco products that rightfully will close the huge budget deficit. I will guarantee you and future graduates of this fine university a place in our state’s rising star of industry. Thank you and good luck.”

After the graduation ceremony, Tank and Deano joined the Johnson’s in the Tar Heel Alumni Center, a plush lounge made more beautiful by Sam’s generosity during the last four years. They shed their graduation paraphernalia and found Sam at the bar.

Champagne glasses were raised as everyone sang the Carolina fight song, toasting the National Championship Trophy that would soon be enshrined next to Tank’s number 34 jersey in a glass case in the center of the lounge.

Tank couldn’t wait any longer to talk to Sam. “Hey, Pop, did you hear that speech? Can you believe he gave a political speech at a commencement exercise? It sounded like a kickoff address for his campaign for a second term. I’m thinking if you want me to win this race for the General Assembly, I can’t spend three years in law school.”

“Stop worrying. We need to hire a campaign manager that can spin this law school thing your way. I know just the guy that can do it. George Klinger. He’s young but really savvy,” Sam said, taking a sip of his Cutty Sark. “He worked a few years in Raleigh as a political newscaster for KRNC TV. Got fired when he snooped a little too close to some backroom dealmakers in the State House.

“The station claimed he was fired to avoid a slander suit over a story he claimed had Finance Chairman Homer Jones sleeping with the House Majority Leader Herman Buker’s wife. Klinger said Jones was poking Buker’s wife before he signed off on a bill that rerouted State Highway 88 through Jones’ little berg of a home town. The town had nothing but a couple of gas stations at the only stoplight intersection in town.

“Funny thing is, Bucker had vowed earlier to kill that bill in committee before a floor vote could be taken, but suddenly changed his mind. After a little conversation with Jones, Buker not only left the highway detour in, but appropriated money to build it.”

“Whoa,” Deano said.

Tank just smiled. “A dirty play.”

“Get used to it, boys. Politics can be a dirty little game.” Sam took a deep breath and finished off the rest of his drink.

“Then you agree I should put off law school.” Tank had no desire to go to law school. It was just another square on Sam’s checklist to get Tank into the Executive Mansion.

“Hell no, son! You have to be patient. The goal is to get your law degree and spend time in the General Assembly until you reach thirty. Then we make the move on the governor’s race. How many thirty-year-old governors do you know? None, and without that law degree and getting your ticket punched in the General Assembly, you don’t have a prayer. But, a four-time All-American wearing a national championship ring who has paid his dues in the General Assembly? You’ll have them swarming around you like bees on morning glories.”

“Exactly, Mr. J. and I can help with tutors.” Deano winked at Tank.

Sam tapped his glass, and it wasn’t long before a waiter brought him a new drink.

“We can mount the campaign right here in Chapel Hill,” Deano continued. “Being a dedicated law student while making campaign speeches broadcast from the law library, it’s perfect. Mr. J, you’re a genius. Nothing like this has ever been done before, and that’s why it’ll work,”

Sam sipped on his fresh Cutty Sark. “I have to admit, son, I like the sound of it and it’ll keep Tank in school.”

Deano was on a roll, and Tank could feel the momentum picking up. His father was easily manipulated by the street smart New Yorker. Deano and booze had Sam in a receptive mood, and he intended to take full advantage of it—or at least, let Deano continue taking advantage.

“Hey, Mr. J., how does
Grad School Assemblyman
for a slogan sound to you? It will attract voters of all ages and especially the young voters who usually only vote about two or three percent of their eligible numbers. We can mount a voter registration campaign on campus and—”

“Whoa! Hold up a minute, Deano,” Sam said, his gesticulations sloshing his drink to the point of spillage. “You sound too much like a campaign manager already. What do you know about running a political campaign?”

“No offense, Mr. J, but I learned a lot about elections in our neighborhood. My dad was a ward captain. In New York, the mayor depends on ward captains to deliver blocks of votes for his election. It’s like what you Southerners call a grassroots campaign. Only we can’t use the same kind of persuasion down here like in New York.”

“What do you mean by persuasion?” Sam asked in a wary tone.

“You don’t have unions and neighborhood wise guys like in New York to help out. So hire your TV guy George . . . whatever his name is to handle the press and media, and I’ll handle the rest from behind the scenes.”

Sam gulped down the rest of his drink. “Let’s go back to the hotel and finish this conversation in private.” Sam grabbed a bottle of Cutty Sark from behind the bar. “Here, Pearl, take my credit card and go shopping while we talk politics. The chauffer will take you anywhere you want to go. Take your time. The boys and I have a lot to talk about.”

It was a silent drive to the Hilton. Sam ushered Tank and Deano into his suite and quickly closed the door. Immediately he unplugged the phone and drew the drapes closed. He went around the room, checking the lamps and under the coffee table for bugs. He even looked in the air vents for hidden cameras.

“Jesus H. Christ, Pop, what the hell are you doing? You’ve been watching too much Elliot Ness on TV. Nobody’s bugged this place. Are you getting paranoid in your old age?” Tank tried to calm Sam down as he followed him around the room.

“Son, you never said anything about your family being in the Mafia the three years I’ve known you. Did you know about that, Tank?” Sam wrung his hands and headed to the bar then poured himself a full glass of scotch from the new bottle with no ice or water.

“Damn it, boys that puts a whole different light on things. I’m sorry, Deano, but we can’t afford to have you involved in the campaign. You are too big a liability, and this isn’t New York.”

Exactly, Mr. J.,” Deano cut in, “this isn’t New York and I never said my father was in the Mafia. Everybody knows somebody in the Mafia in New York. That doesn’t mean you’re in the Mafia. Jeez, he only knows somebody who knows somebody who they say is in the Mafia. And if you’re backing the right candidate, they may throw a little money your way, that’s all. A lotta people say they know Mafiaosos to impress people. It don’t mean they really do or are out whacking people, okay!

“Listen, Mr. J., a lotta Mafia guys have gone legit these days. The Feds have made it pretty tough on the families the last few years. Mr. Hoover’s Mafia taskforce has arrested a lotta the old family Godfathers and broken up the union rackets. It ain’t like the old days. If a Mafia guy does you a favor, you don’t have to kill somebody to pay him back. That’s just stuff in the movies. So relax.”

Deano leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms. “Trust me, I’m not in the Mafia, and I’ll be so far in the background that nobody will know I’m there. I can help this campaign. I know the ropes and how to get dirt on your opponent. With me quarterbacking this team and Klinger out there spinning the media, Tank here will score a touchdown come election day, I guarantee it. Now, let’s all sit down and talk about this calmly.”

“I wish I was as sure about that as you are, son.” Sam slumped down on a couch facing the window. He stretched out on the couch, and Tank pulled his Tony Lama cowboy boots off.

“Tank, we’re going to have to change our plans and start your campaign as soon as possible. Here’s what we have to do. Take advantage of all the publicity from the Orange Bowl and the upcoming Senior Bowl and . . .” Sam’s voice trailed off until his eyelids closed. His head drooped into a wheezing slumber.